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home
Always looking out the window,
really just here.

The hard part about publishing a public journal is practicing restraint. There just has to be a rule about telling everyone about yourself; a protocol on self-indulgence; a ceiling that marks an entry as 'this is too much, delete it.'

Boulevard Avenue is
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Promise it to the wind,
write it on water, and
hope someone will remember.

"I want to record how the world comes at me, because I think it is indicative of the way it comes at everyone." (Phillip Lopate)

Love thy neighbors,
or at least try.

One of these days I will arson my stupid neighbors to death. Nothing like a wall of flame to induce an infectious wave of panic. I've thought of poison, but there there are too many mouths to stuff it into. It's not like how it was in provinces of old, where people drank from a communal stream. My neighbors drink Coke, and tap water. No, I'm good with fire. Fire is cool.

Notwithstanding Me

The last person you want to confide in is the guy in the mirror. When you confess, he's not interested; he knows it already, whatever it is. When you confess anyway, he gets bored and shoots you accusing looks: you're being melodramatic. When you close your eyes, he's gone, but he's really there, seeing you for the sham that you are. When you turn the other cheek, you see exactly that cheek, and not the other one. When you so don't care for his approval, he can't even begin to feel sorry for you. When you do feel sorry, he magnifies your self-shame. When you approve of yourself, he grins, because by then only he is approving of you. When you're so into yourself, he mimics every move you make, and then you notice he's faking it. Living with a shadow is better: you at least don't have an image and likeness of you sneering.


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Monday, June 13, 2005
to forget is human (?)

Yesterday, Philippine Independence Day, my cats slept on the Philippine Star spread over the carpet. Pushing a small fluffy body here and there, removing a wagging tail now and again, I managed to read some news. One column got my attention, its title read, "The joy of working with one's hands," bylined by Lucy Torres, about whom kleptomaniac rumors died down not so long ago. Although the piece had nothing to do with those rumors, and in fact talked about her tita's butingting hobby, which her tita probably enjoyed, the title suggests that maybe Lucy thinks everyone has a short memory.

No, Lucy, we haven't forgotten. And, yes, you will be remembered.

Posted at 03:26 pm by Ayen

 



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